


I'm in the Middle of Your Picture

by Violet_Jones



Series: Backdrifting [2]
Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Dates, Future Fic, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 07:17:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7304821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Jones/pseuds/Violet_Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One week after "Backdrifting" (AU: Canon-divergent from ep 305) - Ian & Mickey go on a real date and continue to get to know one another as adults.</p><p>Firsts: Official date. Ian rims Mickey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm in the Middle of Your Picture

Mickey is lying on Ian’s bed, idly running his thumb over his bare lower torso, just above his groin, as he watches Ian pace around naked in the other room, talking on the phone with someone from work about some account. It’s Friday evening, and it’s been exactly a week since Ian first ran into Mickey and spent the night at his place.

They’d spent practically all of last Saturday together, and then taken a breather on Sunday, each taking the day to privately reflect on what exactly the fuck had just happened and what it meant. They hadn’t gotten together again until Wednesday night. Ian was trying to be cool and give Mickey whatever space he needed to adjust to the idea of them being a thing, not wanting to push too hard, too fast. He was going to wait and ask Mickey to actually go out in public with him somewhere on Saturday night, so they’d wind up together during Sunday day, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself from texting him on his lunch hour earlier, and asking him to come over to his place when he got off from work. He knew Mickey was going in to manage the bar that night and they only had a small window for sex, but he just didn’t want to wait.

Ian ends the call and walks back into the room, tossing the phone onto the dresser with a heavy sigh as Mickey continues to regard his every move from his reclined position on top of the sheets. He likes watching Ian, especially when he’s nude and in motion. Maybe that makes him a creep or a perv, but he’s okay with that. He’s pretty sure that’s supposed to be one of the perks of actually dating someone, though. You’re allowed to do that kind of shit without being labeled a weirdo.

“No way I’m gonna be dragged in on a weekend day for someone else’s fuck up,” Ian informs him, unprompted.

Mickey scoffs, “Good luck with that.”

“What? I gave Kyle clear fucking instructions. Like step-by-step, meticulous, fool-proof instructions on how to get it back on track. It’s not my fault, and I’m not dealing with it any further.”

“Just sayin’,” Mickey insists, stretching and scratching an itch on his forearm, “in my business experience, if somethin’ goes wrong and I don’t fix it myself, it doesn’t get fixed properly. But like I said, good luck.”

Ian groans, fumbling around in a drawer for his phone charger so he can plug his cell in. “Please don’t make me anymore paranoid about this. I hate having to think about work when I’m not actually in the office. I wanna just be able to turn that part of my brain off until I have to step foot back into the building.”

“Again, I wish you the best.”

Ian snorts, “I fucking hate you, you know that?”

“Really? You have a funny way of showin' it. My ass calls bullshit.”

“Your ass is gonna get another spanking if it doesn’t stop sassing me,” Ian smirks, turning around and throwing himself down next to Mickey on the bed.

“You’ve really developed a whole sadistic spanking kink, haven’t you? Should I be worried about some secret room full of whips, paddles, slings, and chains that you’re slowly trying to introduce me to?”

“Fortunately for you, I’m not that interesting. But I do enjoy smacking your plump buttocks, for some reason. You think that means something?”

“Okay, one, don’t say ‘buttocks.’ That word is just wrong somehow. Secondly, no, I don’t think you like punishing. I think you’re obsessed with my ass in general. Maybe also kind of into attempting to dominate my indomitable personality. Like you’re fightin' for the upper hand all the time.”

“That’s kind of deep, considering the fact that we’ve only hung out three times so far, and that we’ve mostly been physical more than anything else. Plus, I’m the top, doesn’t that automatically give me some kind of leverage on the whole dominant front?”

“Not necessarily, dickbreath. There are plenty of people who don’t do the fucking and control the whole relationship. It’s psychology more than anything.”

“Oh my god, I did not come back in here to start a philosophical debate with you on sex roles and power trips,” Ian chides, running his hand over Mickey’s chest, and reaching for his hip to pull him onto his side and flush against Ian’s body.

“No?” Mickey rasps, lips fluttering against Ian’s, as he presses their bodies closer together. Ian’s hand roams unsurprisingly down to Mickey’s ass, gripping and squeezing possessively. He really is enthralled with it.

“No,” Ian breathes hotly against Mickey’s mouth, before sliding his lips against it, just barely peeking his tongue out. “I was hoping for another round before you head to work, actually.”

“Mmm,” Mickey hums, rubbing Ian’s back and kissing him again. “I could probly be convinced.”

“Yeah? What do I have to do to convince you?”

“Dunno,” Mickey says with a shrug. “You could suck my dick.”

“I already did that earlier,” Ian states. “Boring.”

“You were bored when you were blowin' me before? You should go into acting, then, Moany McMoans-a-lot.”

“No, Asshole,” Ian scoffs, “I was into it before. I’m saying it would be boring now, because I just did that shit like an hour ago.”

“You’re a dude, aren’t you? Your cock seems to indicate that you are, and in my own personal experience, all dudes like gettin' blown whenever, wherever, pretty much however.”

Ian snickers. “I’m so proud of how into foreplay you are now. I’m pretty sure you suck dick better than I do. I mean, I have my strengths and everything, but I’d put myself at like an 8 and a half on blowjobs, whereas you’re like a perfect 10.”

Mickey’s face lights up of its own accord. “You think?”

“I _know_. It’s a good thing you developed that skill too, you have perfect dick-sucking lips.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, despite still smiling huge, “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re obsessed with my mouth, second only to my ass. I’m starting to sense a pattern here. You’re just usin' me for my holes.”

Ian guffaws, “Aw, Mick, you’re so much more than the sum of your parts! Your holes mean a lot to me on an intellectual and spiritual level. I feel one with them.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey replies, laughing too.

“Mick, seriously, I wanna take you out, though,” he says, stroking Mickey’s hair. “Tomorrow night. Whatever you wanna do. Outside of the bedroom and everything.”

“Oh, so this _dating_ thing is finally comin’ into play, huh?”

“Yep, that’s what I’m hoping,” Ian answers, kissing him briefly.

“And yet you’re askin’ _me_ for ideas on what to do on this date? I would say that’s strike one on your part,” Mickey teases.

“Why? I’m trying to cater to your interests!”

“Firecrotch, you’re already familiar with my interests. They haven’t changed much. I’m not the one that should be offerin' suggestions for the big date night, trust me.”

“Ugh, you’re gonna be so annoying,” Ian groans. “The epitome of the indecisive ‘ _whatever_ ’ half of the relationship who ends up vetoing shit left and right, even though they quote/unquote _don’t care._ ”

“I’m not a chick or anything, I just don’t like makin’ choices like that. I’m down with whatever you wanna do, just as long as it’s not completely fuckin’ ridiculous. Like I said, you know what I like. I’m trustin’ you. Don’t let me down.”

Ian snorts, “Or what?”

“Or I’ll have to seriously consider whether I wanna continue acceptin' your date invites.”

“That’s like blackmail!”

Mickey snickers, “That is not like blackmail, Gallagher. I’m pretty convinced that I need to buy you a dictionary.”

“Aw, a gift? For little ol’ me?” Ian jests. “Be still my heart!”

“It would be a sarcastic gift, not like a romantic one, so fuck off.”

“So I have like 24 hours to think of something to do with you on a date that will make you not wanna demote me from ‘dating’ status?”

“Sounds like it,” Mickey says nonchalantly.

“You do realize that we basically already went on a date last Friday, right?” Ian asks in an unimpressed tone of voice.

“What? Nah, that doesn’t count.”

“Why not, cuz we didn’t label it beforehand?” Ian intones incredulously.

“Basically, yeah. We weren’t even in each other’s awareness. It was happenstance. We were old friends that randomly decided to hang out.”

“Uh huh. . . Friends who spent like what, 5, 6 hours talking, drinking, eating in public, and then spent the night together, and had a bunch of amazing sex the whole following day? Totally platonic.”

“It was a natural progression!” Mickey exclaims. “Still doesn’t mean we had a date.”

“Semantics,” Ian says, rolling his eyes. “You need to loosen your grip on that dictionary of yours.”

“And you need to get your fuckin’ grip on my cock if you wanna get on this before I have to head out,” mocks Mickey, grabbing at Ian’s left hand and bringing it around to massage his crotch.

Ian laughs, but an aroused expression slowly begins to overtake his features. “Remember when we never had time for foreplay?” he asks, removing his hand from Mickey’s dick, and rubbing up against it with his own cock instead. He places the hand back on Mickey’s butt in order to force their hips closer together.

“You mean we never had any privacy for foreplay,” Mickey corrects.

“I guess it was a little of both, but we were always in a rush. Never took our time.” Ian can feel both of their bodies responding to the slow friction, working their way towards hardness.

“Yeah, in retrospect, we were pretty fuckin’ shitty at the whole sex thing back then,” Mickey admits, placing a hand on the back of Ian’s thigh, hitching it over his hip and rocking against him a little more roughly.

“I guess we kind of were,” Ian concedes, tittering. “And like zero prep most of the time. What the fuck?”

“My ass was always super raw, and I just thought like, ‘yeah, that’s how it is,’” Mickey says, sniggering and shaking his head, but not easing up his movements against Ian.

“Man, we were fucking stupid,” Ian says breathily, heart rate speeding up along with the movements of their bodies.

“And lame,” Mickey adds, letting out a hiss, and roving his hand over Ian’s thigh and ass.

Ian goes in for another kiss, and Mickey obliges, parting his lips slightly and letting Ian do most of the work. He’s still getting used to the whole making out thing.

“Mmm,” Ian hums, pulling away, hand caressing Mickey’s ass and lower back. “You know what else I never did to you?”

“What?”

He grabs a handful of Mickey’s rear, pinching the mound of flesh in his grasp and gritting his teeth as he answers, “I never ate this fuckin’ ass.”

Despite the joking tone, Mickey inhales sharply at the words, and Ian feels him get harder against his leg, just like that. The way Ian practically worships his bubble butt, Mickey can only imagine how into it Ian would get if he let him loose back there with his eager mouth. “Yeah? You wanna eat me out, Gallagher?”

Ian’s breathing speeds up even more. A thin film of sweat has built up on their bodies, and Ian is suddenly keenly aware of the slickness, particularly between their chests and their thighs. “Fuck yeah, I do,” he responds with a smile, frenching Mickey again. He nips at his bottom lip before pulling back and disentangling himself, with a fiendish expression on his face. “Turn the fuck over. Ass up.”

Mickey complies a little too eagerly, and it turns Ian on even more. This week has been a sexual jackpot for him, fulfilling all these dormant, longtime fantasies that Mickey had unknowingly planted in him as a teen, and Ian had committed to the depths of his memory, only to come rushing back full force along with all other things Mickey Milkovich.

He doesn’t have to pull or prod Mickey into position. He merely watches as his partner gets on his knees, leaning forward until his shoulders are on the bed and his ass is sticking up in the air enticingly, and Ian reaches down to touch himself as Mickey places his arms so that his head is resting against them, while spreading his legs apart and settling more comfortably on the mattress. Everything Ian is craving in that moment is there presented to him on a beautifully dirty platter, and he can’t help the low moan that escapes his throat as he strokes himself a few more times before turning his full attention to the task at hand.

He leans forward as if in slow motion, like he’s already riding some heady sex high, even though things are barely getting started, and Ian wonders if continued sex with Mickey could possibly sustain these seemingly impossible heights of unadulterated bliss. The small worry over whether this is a fluke induced by the unusual circumstances of their coming together for the second time in their lives nags at the edges of Ian’s mind, but he let’s it go so quickly that it doesn’t really take hold in his brain.

He let’s everything go as his tongue slips out, and he faintly traces the curvy crease of Mickey’s left cheek, where it meets his powerful upper thigh. He runs his hands over the sides of his legs, loving the duality of the coarse, sparse hair covering the smooth, milky skin, and turns the attention of his tongue to the right cheek, unable to resist a small bite, before moving up to hover over Mickey’s back. He’s so lithe, and his spine curves down toward the bed, and he has these dimples right above his hips that drive Ian a little bit crazy.

Ian leans down and presses a kiss to the middle of Mickey’s upper back, right where it meets his neck, and then peeks his tongue out again to run it slowly down, tracing the bumps of his backbone until he reaches his crack. He pauses for a moment before continuing, just to build the anticipation.

It works. Mickey finds himself actually trembling as Ian finally snakes his tongue down to his hole, and he moans so loudly, he’s almost embarrassed. It crosses his mind that Gallagher has been making him so much hotter, and been giving him such stronger orgasms than anyone since he can really remember, and they’d only gone a handful of rounds in the past week. He briefly grasps at the hope that this never stops. . . never changes. He could definitely learn to live chasing this kind of exquisite torture.

Ian laps at Mickey’s asshole with zealous attention, and spreads him open wider with his hands, dipping inside what little he can, sucking and then spitting filthily at it, rubbing it in with his thumb. Mickey fucking loses his mind at that kind of porno shit that shouldn’t be hot at all in practice, but totally is. Ian’s like a goddamn porn star.

“Fuck, Mick,” Ian breathes out heavily, as he watches Mickey’s hole spasm around the thumb he’s shallowly slipping in and out of it. “So fucking hot. . . this ass.”

He dives back in with his mouth, alternating between sucking and laving at the rim, and Mickey is reduced to a writhing, moaning mess of a homo beneath Ian’s expert ministrations.

“Fuck yeah, don’t stop!” Mickey manages to choke out, and it spurs Ian on, speeding up his movements.

At this point, Ian becomes painfully aware of his cock and its current state of neglect. He’s rock hard and leaking over the bedsheets. Pleasuring Mickey is doing a real number on him, and he decides it’s time to put two and two together.

He removes his face from between Mickey’s cheeks, but slides his hand back in place to take over, and keep Mickey with enough contact to maintain his current state of losing all control, so he can slyly reach for the lube and one of the condoms sitting in wait on the bedside table. He flicks the cap of the lube up with his teeth and withdraws his hand briefly in order to squirt some of the liquid onto his first two fingers, rapidly moving them back to Mickey’s entrance and slipping one in a few times, and then both.

Mickey moans even louder. “Yes!” He hears Ian tussling one-handed with the condom wrapper, and the sound of more lube being squirted from the tube. “Fuck yes, fuck me with that big fuckin’ cock!”

Ian doesn’t hesitate to do as directed, removing his fingers immediately, and swiftly pushing up against him and inside about halfway. They both moan lowly as he pauses, and then takes it slower as he gently rocks himself all the way in.

Ian leans forward over Mickey’s back, his knees spreading Mickey’s even wider in their kneeling position and he begins moving in earnest.

Mickey feels so fucking full, and the wide stance Ian has him spread out in makes him unable to even move, so that he feels completely out of control, which in turn makes him feel fucking slutty and sexy. “Oh, fuck. Just like that.” His dick is so hard underneath him, but he doesn’t even want to reach for it. He’s pretty sure Ian could make him come without even having to touch it, and he would have to fight to even try and move his arms right now anyway. His head tosses and turns, though, because he can’t fucking help it, and he’s licking his lips and biting down on the bottom one, trying to stave off his impending climax.

And then he feels that fucking shooting sensation of pure pleasure pulse from deep inside, and all the way up through every nerve ending in his body, as Ian gets the perfect angle so that his big cock is sliding right up against his prostate over and over, and Mickey knows it’s all gonna end now, and he doesn’t care anymore.

He cries out as he comes all over the sheets, some of it clinging to his chest, and Ian groans at the sensation brought on by the squeeze each spurt produces around his dick. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!” And Ian follows him over the edge, vision blurring momentarily as he holds Mickey’s hips firmly against him until his balls are empty.

They lie there panting in a sweaty heap until Ian can gather his wits about him enough to pull out. He fucking hates pulling out. When he finally does, he groans at the sudden lack of warmth and pressure, and Mickey groans at the sudden feeling of emptiness and contraction.

Ian collapses supine on the other side of the bed, and Mickey immediately extends his legs out to rest on the mattress and give his burning thighs a rest, not giving two shits about lying in the wet spot at the moment. His eyes are shut tightly and he’s trying to catch his breath. He can feel his asshole fucking twitching, he came so hard.

“Are you sure you haven’t been doin' porn for the last ten years, man?” He asks Ian in a tone that’s probably supposed to be playful, but sounds pretty much dead serious, as he huffs and puffs, trying to get his breathing back to normal.

Ian can’t help a hearty laugh. He’s at peak sensitivity, coming down off the force of his own intense orgasm, and the joke seems about twenty to fifty times funnier than it would normally. He’s giddy, too, because they’re so fucking good at this. Ian’s always good at this, but he feels like he’s better with Mickey. You’re always at your best with the right fucking partner.

His laughter becomes infectious, because it won’t stop, and Mickey can’t help but join him, until they’re both just lying there giggling so hard that it’s becoming a problem. Ian has actual tears running down his face, and Mickey feels completely strange and out of his element. He doesn’t think he’s ever laughed like this in bed with anyone before. At least not without something embarrassing happening first, like unwanted bodily functions at inopportune times, or accidental injuries, cramps, or what have you. This was just total fucking mutual geeking out on a big O high.

“I promise, Mick,” Ian finally responds once they’re able to get themselves under control, “I’ve only done one porno, and it was fucking ages ago, and I was a fucking idiot back then.”

Mickey’s eyes widen. “The fuck! Seriously?”

“Full disclosure?” Ian pauses. “Yeah, one time. I was 19. I was working at a club, dancing. I used to be a go-go boy. . . shut the fuck up. . . and someone made me an offer I couldn’t really refuse at the time. So I didn’t.”

“Jesus, fuck, Gallagher! I was kidding.”

“I know you were, but something makes me wanna tell you the truth for some reason.” He pauses again. “Should I not?”

Mickey thinks about it for a moment. “No, you should. I wanna know things about you. . . _for some reason_.” He smiles.

And Ian smiles right back.

 

 

* * *

 

Ian’s pretty sure that Mickey is really getting into his fucking head, because the following day finds him begrudgingly heading into his office in the late morning in order to repair the damage to the project that the head graphic designer can’t seem to manage on his own.

Luckily, it’s not a complete disaster, and he only ends up losing a few hours of his day. He still has no fucking idea what he’s going to do with Mickey tonight on their date that he’s been trying not to build up in his mind as being super fucking important to the development of their relationship.

It’s just that he’s a little perturbed by their sheer volume of sexual chemistry, not because that’s a bad thing. . . it’s a very, very, _very_ good thing. . . He just doesn’t want to discover that that’s all there is between them. He doesn’t want it to end up being just a case of super-amazing, fun sex that’s been enhanced by riding the wave of nostalgia that's also a major factor in their dynamic.

And Ian knows Mickey. He’s changed a lot, sure, but essentially he said it himself, he doesn’t really do the boyfriend thing. So what if he can’t help it? What if he just gets bored with their arrangement and sends Ian on his way and, ‘Thanks for the added cache of memories, but come on, we all knew this wasn’t really gonna be a thing, right?’

Ian wouldn’t be heartbroken, because even he isn’t there yet, but he would feel like he lost a big chance at something that had the potential to be really special. And Ian doesn’t get that feeling very often. It’s been years since he’s had that feeling.

No. He has to subtly and carefully prove to Mickey that what’s between them isn’t just some fluke. That it’s worth fully exploring, and that running away too early is not a fucking option.

So how do you say that with a fucking date. . . a date with someone who doesn’t really like dates?

For some reason, the only idea that keeps floating around in his head is the ol’ time-honored standby of dinner and a movie. Nothing else is coming to him, because anything out-of-the-box seems too fancy and anti-Mickey. He’s going to have to work up to things like going to a gallery show, or going to drag night at one of the gay bars downtown. He’s gonna have to gauge exactly how open Mickey is to new things, or maybe not-so-new things, Ian isn’t sure. Maybe he’s underestimating Mickey completely, but he can’t stop the nerves, or shake the mentality of taking it slow where he’s concerned. He actually found himself thinking, ‘Better safe, than sorry,’ then proceeded to berate himself for being such a pussy.

Still, the standard date night of normal people everywhere sounds okay. And he could take him somewhere else after for drinks, and that’s another standard way to end an evening out. And then they can retreat to a bed and do what is already comfortably familiar again, and all will be well. And he’ll make Mickey take _him_ out next time, so _he_ can feel this pressure and Ian won’t have to deal with it.

He texts Mickey to set the time.

> **Ian** : 7 o’clock alright?
> 
> **Mickey** : Isn’t that kind of early?
> 
> **Ian** : Not really. Is it?
> 
> **Mickey** : Whatever, that’s fine. Where do you wanna meet?
> 
> **Ian** : I’ll pick you up.
> 
> **Mickey** : I’m rolling my eyes so hard right now.
> 
> **Ian** : Shut up and let it happen.

Ian promptly shows up at Mickey’s a few minutes before 7 pm, and knocks on the door, trying to settle his stupid nerves. He feels like a goddamn inexperienced kid. It’s not exactly like this is someone new that he doesn’t really know either, that’s what makes no sense. He should be able to relax, but he just can’t.

Mickey opens the door, looking totally nonplussed, and Ian’s eyes narrow a bit, because that’s not fair. Mickey should be feeling some kind of misgivings too, because that would make it less embarrassing for Ian, and he would feel like the playing field was even, which is something he always strives for in dating situations. . . Economic equality when it comes to paying for stuff, same-page timing on feelings of arousal, equal opportunity internal freak-outs, and what have you.

“Hey,” he greets, walking past Mickey into his apartment, and waiting for him to gather whatever he needs to gather so they can head out.

“What’s up?” Mickey says. “Where we goin’?”

“Uhhhh,” Ian replies oh-so-eloquently, “dinner and a movie?”

Mickey let’s out a hard cackle. “Wow, Gallagher! Pullin’ out all the stops for this one!”

Ian rolls his eyes, but shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Fuck off! I decided I’m not afraid of being unoriginal.”

“I think this may be beyond unoriginal,” Mickey says as he dons his jacket, then reaches for his keys and phone on the counter, “it’s like so vanilla that it’s almost plain yogurt.”

“Yeah, well. . .” Ian struggles for a moment on how to continue. “I didn’t know how receptive you would be to my _original_ ideas. You’re not exactly an open book.”

“Oh, but I am, Firecrotch. In a lot of ways, I am.”

Ian decides to go for brutal honesty, “Okay, well, I don’t know why, but I’m fucking nervous as hell about all this, alright? So maybe I just couldn’t think clearly to like be more spontaneous or inventive in this instance.”

“Don’t gotta be nervous,” Mickey grins, eying him with incredulity. “It’s just me.”

Ian snorts and shakes his head, “Yeah, _just_ you. The open fucking book, apparently.”

“‘Ey,” Mickey chides, and surprises the shit out of Ian by stepping forward and placing a hand on the side of his neck. “Calm the fuck down. It’s all good, I’m just givin’ you shit. I wanna go out with you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t, simple as that. Don’t be in your fuckin’ head all night, okay?”

Ian exhales loudly, peering into the light blue irises of Mickey’s eyes, and shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah, okay.” He leans his forehead against Mickey’s for a brief moment, then presses a small, soft kiss to his lips. “I’m being fucking stupid. I get anxiety sometimes and it kind of spirals a little bit.”

“You done, then?” Mickey asks.

“Yeah, I’m done. Let’s go.”

Ian guides them to a movie theater that also serves food and alcohol, a few L stops away from Mickey’s place, and they arrive just as the current round of showings is beginning.

“Hence the early meet-up hour,” Ian pointedly remarks to Mickey with a playful glare.

Neither of them have been to the movies in a while, and they debate whether to see the latest car-chase shoot-em-up, the latest superhero CGI-fest, or the latest jump-scare supernatural horror film. In the end, they go for the horror, because if it turns out not to be scary, they can always have a good time making fun of it, but if it is actually freaky, then win-win.

It turns out to be a mixture of both. . . scary at first, but slowly spiraling into ridiculous to the point of being funny. They down a few beers each and split two different entrees. Ian pays. They whisper semi-loudly to one another throughout, because it’s practically impossible not to. They have a good time.

“That it?” Mickey asks with a skeptical smirk, once they’re out on the street, after the credits have rolled, and they’ve made a trip to the restrooms to relieve their beer bladders.

“Nope!” Ian says with a broad smile. “You don’t get off _that_ easily. There’s one more stop, but I think you’ll like it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I hope you haven’t been there yet. I haven’t, but I heard it’s really cool, and it seems right up your alley. Let’s go.”

Ian swings his arm over Mickey’s shoulder as they start walking, hoping that it’s not too open a gesture for how public they are right now. He hasn’t really tested the waters on PDAs with Mickey yet, but this is pretty tame and probably the least threatening way to go about it. However, they’re both feeling loose from the good, high alcohol percentage beers they just drank, and giddy from all the jokes they’d been making at the movie’s expense, so Mickey doesn’t protest at all, and instead just casually throws his own arm around Ian’s waist.

It feels good.

They walk a while, not saying much, but the silence comfortable. Eventually, Mickey grows impatient and starts to protest petulantly.

“Where the fuck you takin’ me, Gallagher? We’re like halfway to fuckin’ Kenosha by now.”

Ian chuckles, “Mick, it’s been 20 minutes, tops. We should be there any minute.”

“Why didn’t we just take the fuckin’ train?”

“Will you shut the fuck up? Jesus!”

And sure enough, a couple minutes later they arrive at their destination: a combination bookstore, cafe, and bar, with reasonably dimmed lighting and small tables scattered throughout.

“Ta-da!” Ian sing-songs as they look through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Oh, shit yeah! I’ve been wanting to check this place out. It’s new.”

A little thrill runs through Ian at being able to at least deliver an interesting place to get a couple drinks, made sweeter with the knowledge that Mickey had been interested in checking it out as well.

They walk up to the bar to order, and Ian goes for some old-timey, pretentious, fancy cocktail, while Mickey just goes for a top-shelf bourbon on the rocks.

“Rocks, eh?” Ian taunts. Mickey used to drink straight whiskey like it was nothing.

“What are you implying, Red?”

“Just an observation, not implying anything. But if I were to imply anything, it wouldn’t even be about how you have to water down your liquor now, it would be a sly warning to watch out for the whiskey dick curse now that you’ve reached a certain age.”

Mickey snorts into his drink. “You would know about aging dicks after all. And don’t worry about mine, dude, anything goes awry, we’ll just focus on yours.”

Ian gasps. “You’ve become such a little giver! That’s downright selfless and sweet of you, Mick. Sacrifice your own orgasm in service of mine? I appreciate it deeply.”

“Do I actually need a hard-on, though? I mean, if you’re goin' in the back, hittin' the spot, would I still come anyway? Never come across that scenario before.” Mickey’s brow is raised, and his forehead creased, like he’s really pondering this hypothetical predicament closely.

“Is this an actual conversation we’re having right now?” Ian wonders aloud with a small giggle. “Your mind goes off on some fucking weird tangents these days, Milkovich.”

Mickey laughs, “Fuck it, ain’t gonna happen anyway. I don’t got dick problems.”

“I never thought you did,” Ian assures him. “Jokes, Mick, jokes.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Come on, let’s go see what all they have up in here.”

“Okay, let me start a tab first,” Ian replies.

“Shouldn’t I get this one?” Mickey asks, starting to pull out his wallet.

“Nope. You’re in charge of the next date, and you can pay for everything then. Tit for tat.”

“Let’s not trade anything for tits, okay? We can get by without ‘em,” Mickey jests, as Ian hands over his card to the bartender. “Besides, what are you gonna do if I just want a date night in at at the house. Fuckin’ Netflix and chill, or whatever? I order some cheap Chinese and get a 12-pack of PBR or some bullshit, and you’re totally fucked, cuz you just dropped way more money than I did.”

“No such thing as a date night in,” Ian informs him confidently. “That would just be your average hanging out. So you would still owe me an actual date, and then _I_ would owe _you_ a cheap night in.”

Mickey shakes his head, tittering. “Jesus, now who’s bein' a stickler on semantics? Are you sure your actual job title isn’t a _ccountant_?”

“I’m sure. And really, I don’t actually care if I spend more money on you than you do on me, but I do like as much fairness as possible in all things, so it’s just always made sense to me to take turns on paying. But I’m not so fucking anal that I force you to split the bill every fucking time we go somewhere. That shit just seems petty and silly. I’m not trying to say you owe me anything dollar-for-dollar. Am I making any sense?”

“Yeah,” Mickey affirms. “I agree to your terms and conditions. Do I need to sign somethin'?”

Ian laughs, swatting him in the chest with the back of his hand, and following Mickey around as he begins perusing the different sections and genres of books for sale. They sip their drinks and make small talk, finally settling in at a small wooden table for two near the back of the building.

“The problem with book stores these days is that you can get everything off Amazon for way cheaper,” notes Mickey, “so unless I’m in like a half-price or re-sell place, I usually just end up makin' a list of shit and then goin' online later and ordering it all there like a traitor.”

“Isn’t Amazon doing that to like every retail business, though? Selling everything cheaper, because they can?” Ian asks.

“Yeah, but for print media and entertainment it’s a way harder hit. I’m surprised that this place even exists, to be honest. But I like it, it’s pretty cool.”

“Even if the cocktails _are_ overpriced,” Ian says.

Mickey shrugs. “It’s like that everywhere now, though. This mixology cocktail shit just makes it worse. Believe me, I got over the cost of things livin' in hipster-ass Brooklyn for so long. It just keeps gettin' worse and worse, but it seems to be the same all over. I don’t think it really matters what town you’re in anymore.”

“Yeah. Austin was the same way, and you could see the gentrification plain as day on the East Side of the downtown area there. It went from desolate artist warehouses, cheap dive bars, and low-rent housing to pushing out all the cool shit and selling out everything to the highest bidder.”

“Fiona and them still over at the house in South Side?” Mickey asks. “They been tryin’ to gentrify all up over that bitch for years, I hear.”

“Yeah. I can’t fucking believe they’re still over there, but they are. Fiona’s. . . well, I’ll tell you all about her shit some other time. Her drama quotient has always been set on max. But yeah, Carl and Liam are still with her. They’ve actually done some work on the house, though. It’s not as shitty as it used to be.” Ian shakes his head and gives a small laugh. “I guess the same could be said for all of us now, huh?”

Mickey chortles. “We could probly toast to that, but I don’t toast. Toasting is fuckin' stupid.”

Ian laughs, placating him, “ _Of_ _course_ it is.”

There’s a small lull in conversation, and they sip their drinks, eying the decor and ambiance of the place, until Ian clears his throat.

“What?” Mickey inquires.

“Okay, so there’s two elephants in the room,” Ian tells him.

“Okay?” Mickey replies.

“Two questions I keep meaning to ask you, but I forget, because you usually distract me with your ass, or your witty repartee.”

“Are you actually gonna get to the fuckin’ questions, or is there more build-up you wanna pile on?”

“Ugh, shut up.” Ian rolls his eyes yet again. “Question one: Your knuckle tattoos have changed.”

“That’s not a question, dumbass,” Mickey snorts, looking down at his hands.

“You’re right, I didn’t phrase it properly. My apologies, Alex fucking Trebek. What’s up with your new knuckle tats?”

Rather than the rough, poorly executed ‘FUCK U-UP’ that was once permanently scrawled across his fingers, Mickey now sports eight very neat looking abstract black symbols. He’d gotten the cover-up job about five years ago, and had never regretted the decision.

“I just decided to cover up that old, stupid shit with somethin' a little more interesting. Looks better, doesn’t remind me of ancient history, and doesn’t get me so many unwarranted dirty looks from the general public.”

Ian nods. “But what to do they mean. . . the symbols?”

“Is that question two?”

“No. Stop stalling.”

Mickey sighs, “See, this was the risk of turnin' the letters into symbols. Everyone and their mother wants to fuckin’ know what they represent. I just didn’t wanna have a bunch of pictures on there. It was the best option. I found some symbols that meant certain things, and I went with it.”

“Okay, but that still doesn’t tell me what they mean,” Ian points out. “So you’re not actually answering the question.”

“Maybe you should find out for yourself what they mean,” Mickey challenges.

Ian quirks an eyebrow. “What do you mean? I’m trying to, right now, as we speak.”

Mickey lets out an exasperated sigh. “I meant like search for the answer yourself. You know, like using tools such as a computer, the internet, fuckin' Google.”

“You’re giving me fucking _date homework_?” Ian asks indignantly, with a shrill edge to his voice.

And now Mickey is highly amused at having stumbled onto this topic of conversation. It’s a perfect way to benignly fuck with Gallagher. “What, you sayin’ I ain’t worth the time and effort?”

“No, I’m saying you’re an asshole for not just telling me something so random.”

“Oh, come on. This makes things interesting.”

“Fine. I’ll fucking sleuth out your dumb bullshit. Hopefully one of those things means something totally fucking fruity and I can make fun of you about it forever.”

“We’ll see,” Mickey says with a smirk. “Still wanna ask me about elephant number two?”

“Against my better judgment,” Ian says with a mockingly hard edge, “but first let me get a fucking pic of your hands for reference.”

Mickey’s still smiling as he makes his hands into fists and holds them up side by side, so Ian can snap a picture with his cell phone. The flash leaves an annoying bright spot in Mickey’s field of vision for a while after.

“Alright,” Ian continues, “question two was about how I haven’t seen you smoke any cigarettes in the past week. . . not after sex, not when we’re drinking. . . Did you quit?”

Mickey releases a long-suffering sigh, as if defeated. “Unfortunately, yeah. A few years back, Mandy sorta made me.”

Ian let’s out an obnoxiously loud cackle, slamming a hand on the table for emphasis. “Wowww,” he says, stretching out the one syllable for seconds on end to illustrate his disbelief. “I didn’t think anyone could _make_ you do anything, even Mandy.”

“It ain't like it was easy, and it ain't like I didn’t put up a fuckin’ fight, either. She started her own quitting process and kept comin' at me all teary-eyed, talkin’ about how I was gonna die if I didn’t quit before I turn 30, and all this other bullshit.”

“So guilt-tripping you actually works?” Ian asks.

“This wasn’t a typical guilt-trip, this was a systematic, long-term shakedown. She decides to quit smokin', and suddenly becomes this holier-than-thou fuckin’ anti-tobacco crusader. It was extremely hypocritical, but eventually I had to cave just for the sake of my own sanity. Otherwise, I couldn’t even be around her.”

“Damn,” Ian says. “I’m actually really surprised that you’re not one of those diehard ‘from my cold, dead hands’ fuckers that refuses to give up his smokes even after getting lung, tongue, and throat cancer. I always sorta pictured you as one of those kids from those sepia-toned photographs, straight outta like the industrial Depression era. . . 12 years old, dirt smudges on your face, running around barefoot, hauling lumber, and smoking cigs on the corner with your dirty little street brat army.”

Mickey cracks up hard at that mental image. “That _does_ sound disturbingly accurate, but I’m pretty sure I’m not a hundred years old, nor am I Dorian Gray.”

“I quit too, a couple years ago,” Ian tells him. “It was surprisingly easier than I thought it would be. I basically just dwindled down the amount I smoked per day, then per week, then per month, until I weened myself off and they started to disgust me whenever I would try smoking one again, or even just asking for a drag from someone else. It definitely helped to smoke a shit-ton of pot, though. Every time I got a craving and I wasn’t working, I would just take a hit off my pipe.”

“Yeah, I did the pot thing too, for sure, but I had to have all that other shit too. . . patches, nicotine gum, fuckin’ douchey-ass E-cigs. . . the works. I was a mess for like a year just tryin’ to actually stop completely. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, probly. But. . . now I can actually fuckin’ breathe like a normal human being, and I stopped feelin’ so antsy over having to have somethin’ to do with my hands and mouth all the time. Do _not_ make a quip about that.”

Ian chuckles. “I didn’t say a word. It’s funny though, because you _have_ always had an oral fixation, and you gesture a lot with your hands when you talk.”

“Thanks for the news, Dan Rather.”

Ian snorts. “Dan Rather hasn’t done the news in like 15 years. Update your references, old man.”

“‘Ey! I thought I was now the adorable, grody, scrappy little street urchin? What the fuck?” Mickey jests.

“Yeah, I’ll just start calling you Artful Dodger.”

“You should,” Mickey says. “He was a badass.”

“Would that make me Oliver Twist, then?” Ian asks.

“Nah, more like Little Orphan Annie, before she met Daddy Warbucks. Singin’ fuckin’ annoying-ass songs, way too optimistic for her station in life, and the shitty experiences she had. The Artful Dodger would con the shit outta that bitch.”

“Hey, she was tougher than she looked, and there’s nothing wrong with being nice. She woulda outsmarted Dodger somehow, even if she had to sing at him until he ran away. Plus, Oliver become a fucking musical too, you know.”

“Nope,” Mickey responds. “I’ve never done musicals, and I’m never gonna do musicals, so that’s one thing you can check off your list, if you ever try to drag my ass to a theater. I’m warnin' you now, you will get murdered.”

“How’d you know about Annie then?” Ian inquires.

“Fuckin’ Mandy, dude! She used to watch that goddamn VHS on repeat when she was a kid. I almost strangled her to death multiple times, but threatening to burn the tape always got her to do shit for me that I didn’t wanna do, so that was a compromise I had to live with.”

“Man, I can’t imagine all the shit you guys pulled on each other growing up,” Ian says, shaking his head. “Lip and I got into it, but we were mostly on the same side against Fiona or the younger ones.”

“If Lip had been a Milkovich, I definitely woulda burned his favorite tapes, and I probly woulda beaten his ass with various blunt objects from time to time.”

Ian laughs. “You haven’t even seen him in almost 10 years! You have no idea what he’s like now. How can you still hate him?”

“I don’t hate him, I just think he’s a cunt. Once a cunt, always a cunt, in my humble experience.”

“So if I were to bring you over to a family function, you would still be holding whatever grudge this is?”

“Are you already tryin' to introduce me to the fam, Gallagher? I think you’re movin' way too fast.”

“Ha ha,” Ian deadpans. “We already know each other’s crazy families, and I wanna see Mandy before I take you anywhere near my siblings again. You gonna give me her number, or what?”

Mickey pauses, pondering how to deal with this topic he’s been avoiding with Ian.

He doesn’t know how to tell Ian that he decided he wants to wait on precipitating the whole Mandy-Ian reunion, because he doesn’t know how he can put his thoughts on the matter into words delicate enough not upset the guy.

He has no intention of rocking the boat, because he’s found himself growing increasingly comfortable around Ian, and he likes how things are going. It’s just that maybe it would be too much to assume that the two of them can maintain this balance, mostly just because Mickey doesn’t trust himself not to go and do something to fuck it all up. He knows Ian wouldn’t be the one to falter, it would totally be him, and he doesn’t know how, why, or when, but he just can’t trust himself at the moment. Not yet. He’s not exactly sure why. Maybe just lack of experience.

He doesn’t want Ian recruiting Mandy to his side in his quest to tame Mickey, because that would ruin everything. He’d resent them both, and he’d tell Ian to go fuck himself. Mickey has to be sure about himself and about Ian, and about what exactly it is that they have together, before he can bring Mandy into the loop.

“Not yet, alright,” Mickey finally answers. “Just give it a little more time. I wanna be the one to tell her about all this. . . You and me, or whatever.”

Ian gives a small grin, “Okay, but what exactly are you waiting for? I thought you said she’d be thrilled to see me again?”

“She would. She will be, but I just. . . I don’t know, I just wanna be sure. . .”

“That this isn’t a passing phase?” Ian finishes for him, echoing the thoughts he’d had earlier that day when he’d been so nervous about what the night with Mickey would bring.

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. . . Don’t be mad.”

Ian shakes his head. “No, I’m not. I was kinda thinking the same thing earlier. . . I mean, hoping that it’s not. . . you know. . . fleeting.”

“Well,” Mickey says, letting a genuine smile overtake his features, “so far, so good, right? One day at a time?”

“Yeah,” Ian replies, returning a bright smile of his own. “One day at a time.”

 

 

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> [The Violet Jones](http://thevioletjones.tumblr.com/)


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